


(The Sun'll Still Shine) But The Night Is On My Mind

by rockinrye



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, new directions - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-08
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:31:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinrye/pseuds/rockinrye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Santana wants is a summer to feign blind to the life that’s in shambles around her. If she can avoid Britt (and those damn glee kids), stay inside and occasionally pass and puff with Puck, things’ll be perfect. The summer, of course, has different plans. Title from ATCQ’s “Midnight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Fuck you,” Santana says around a puff of smoke. The effort it would take to slug Puck in the shoulder like she wants would cut through her high so she resolves to flick ash at him and sink deeper into the couch.

He’s being obnoxious and practically begging for head. If she hadn’t considered him her lesbro (which isn’t completely accurate because a) he doesn’t know she’s gay and b) she still fucks him on occasion – though for the last month the few exchanges they’ve had have been by way of mouth) she’d probably kill him.

“C’mon, it’s an even exchange,” he says passing the blunt back to her. She takes a long pull of the minuscule remnants of bud and peach flavored paper between her finger tips and lets out a sigh with the exhalation of smoke. She drops the roach into the empty Heineken bottle nestled between her legs and does her best impression of completely ignoring him which she’s pretty damn good at.

“You blow me. I go down on you. Win-win. We both know you like win-wins,” he says and she can feel his smirk in the air even though she isn’t looking at him.

“When it’s a win-win for _me_ ,” she starts, a huff of air following her words, “There’s no joy in trying to first, find your penis and; second, hope you last longer than your allotted two minutes.”

“Fuck you,” he says but he’s laughing and she’s not. She’s seriously not up for it. So she tells him that and pairs it with her first glance at him in the last fifteen minutes. His welcome is an eye roll.

“You sort of disgust me,” she says shortly, shrugging her shoulders. Her hand moves to comb through her hair and she focuses her attention on the television again.

Her statement isn’t completely true. Puck for the most part isn’t half bad when he’s not begging for favors, but since the last day of school she’s been out of it. As much as she enjoys sex, Puck isn’t her preferred partner – he isn’t even her preferred sex which is a whole other battle.

She usually tries to pretend that he’s Britt, but he grips her way too tight with his too rough hands and then there’s the stubble and, fuck, it just never works.

If orgasms weren’t high on her list of favorite things (right before boobs which was the tipping point to her realization that she’s gay, gay, gay) she’d stop fucking him all together.

“You’re being a bitch.”

“Like that’s new,” she says with a semblance of finality. She reaches between them and tosses a Wii remote into his lap. “I’m not in the mood. So, just let me kick your ass and I’ll be on my way. You can call the rhino or the hobbit – yeah, you’re sort of obvious,” she smirks when she hears his breath hitch in rebuttal, which is as close to nice as he’s getting from her, “I’m sure one of them is willing.”

“You’ve been acting fucking weird,” he says but he starts the game any way. She kicks his ass twice before she gets lazy and really hungry.

She tosses the controller on the couch, stands up, stretches wide and plots her assault on his kitchen as she climbs the stairs. She makes herself a PB&J sandwich -- she considers making one for Puck too but, fuck him, he can make his own -- and heads back downstairs.

His eyes are red when they make contact and its clear that he’s stoned, but his facial expression is hovering between concerned and pitying which makes her frown immediately. If one more person tries to have this conversation --

“Is this about, Britt?” He says furrowing his eyebrows. They knit together in reflection of an emotion she doesn’t want from Puck. She’s got enough going on without him being in her business and feeling sorry for her when he doesn’t _really_ understand.

“What?” She drops the balled up paper towel in her hand onto the worn coffee table and throws him a look that very clearly says, “Stop talking.”

“You’re all sad and shit,” he says. “She’s only been at that dance intensive or whatever its called -- for two weeks. I know you’re like joined at the hip but grow a pair, Lo. It’s like you’re in lo--”

“Whoa,” he says, “I thought you weren’t -- _fuck_...”

His eyes roll back immediately. She might not like sex with boys but she’s damn sure good at it. Her nature dictates that she aim to be good at everything.

His hands are tangling in her hair and the whole time her head bobs in his lap she’s thinking about how fucked up she is. She wishes the fingers were soft and stroking, not tugging and matched with ugly groans.

When she’s finished, he tries to press her into the couch and pull down her shorts but she puts her hands to his chest and gets up. She runs a light hand through his Mohawk, twists her keys around her fingers and takes to the stairs with “Bye loser,” and regret on her lips.

*

 _“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone else in this world. All I know about you and I is that because of that I think anything’s possible.”_

 _“You’re my best friend.”_

 _“Yeah. Me too.”_

Thirty six words.

Thirty six words from the last real conversation she had with Brittany keep her up most nights. She counted them instead of sheep two weeks ago when they were the only thing cycling through her thoughts. They make her head spin and her chest tight, because for as smart as she is she can’t seem to decipher what they mean.

She’s pinned down her own assumptions though:

She’s relegated to the friend zone and no matter how much her heart aches, because of new found exposure and its subsequent run through the ringer, absolutely nothing seems possible.

She spends most of the night rolling in her covers half-high thinking of blue eyes and soft hands with an ache in her chest that seems too tight to survive.

*

Everything about this summer is outside of the norm.

Brittany’s not connected to her at a hip, twined pinkie or well-placed thigh. There’s no cheer camp because that’s not part of her life. There’s no Quinn because that’s not part of her life either and the fact that she might actually miss it is outside the norm too.

On top of everything Dr. Arias and Denia Lopez, Esq. think she needs a summer job, which goes against everything this summer is supposed to stand for: her being a complete hermit and occasionally toking with Puck because she doesn’t want to be fucking bothered.

*

 _San, I’m back._

She rereads the message four times before she drops her phone onto her mattress and her body follows.

Three words.

She’s tired of counting and caring so she doesn’t respond. Instead, she props her laptop on her chest and re-watches MTV shit that she has a love-hate relationship with until she finally falls asleep.

*

She hasn’t done much of anything in three days.

(Aside from leaving the house for a few hours pretending to look for a job.)

Brittany’s sent her a text every day since the initial one on Tuesday and she doesn’t have a real reason not to respond other than thinking her heart might explode. She’s surprised she hasn’t just up and shown up at her house.

If this is what Brittany felt like the first time they -- she halts the thought because that’ll just make her feel shitty and she doesn’t want to be the shitty person in this situation. She’s the one with unrequited love on her side.

She picks her phone up and is so close to sending out _I miss you_ that her heart jumps when the phone vibrates instead. She takes that as a sign, clears the message and opens the one from Puck.

 _Party at Berry’s._

Her eyes roll automatically because she’s still not over that sham of a kiss that cost them Nationals. She’s tired of shit she actually cares about being ruined by shit she can’t control.

(There’s also the fact that Finn dumped Rachel a whopping two weeks into the summer making losing Nationals a complete waste.)

 _There’s no way I’m going to that_ , she texts back.

 _Lo, c’mon. I’m bringing your favorite people. Jack and Jose._

 _I can’t be held responsible for any physical harm I cause to Finndestructive or the Oompa Loompa._

He tells her it’s a deal and requests that she come pick him up which she’s sure is the only reason he told her about the party in the first place. She slides off her bed and heads for the shower. Forty minutes later she’s dressed in light blue cut-offs and a racerback tank with extra wide armholes that make a bandeau top underneath necessary.

*

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Puckerman,” Santana says when they step into the Berry basement. Absolutely nothing about this screams party. Especially the part where six or so people are sitting on the floor and around the stage with a Taboo box between them.

“Noah! Santana! Welcome!” Rachel says smiling brightly and gesturing to a table of vegan snacks and the crowd of people scattered about. Santana bites her lip to keep from flipping out.

This definitely isn’t a party and if she’s taking in everything the right way it looks like the New Directions Taboo night Rachel’s been pushing for since _last_ summer.

“I brought booze,” Puck says raising the handles in the air.

Rachel’s face twitches a little like she wants to protest, but she’s also glancing at the death stare Santana is shooting her way so she just shrugs, lets out a small mph and says, “I guess spirits can enhance the New Directions Taboo experience. However, I won’t be partaking.”

“The cups are over there, Noah,” she adds before practically gliding away. He ignores it and tugs two shot glasses from the pocket of his denim jacket and smirks at Santana.

“I want you to know that I will never trust anything you say again,” she starts.

“I’m sorry. She just really wanted everyone to be here and --”

“Save it.” She snatches a shot glass from him, lets out a snort at the words on the bottom of the glass ( _If you can read this take another shot_ ) and waits for him to uncap the handle of Cuervo. She makes him take three shots with her before she even considers taking a step toward the rest of the group.

*

Fifteen minutes later a large portion of New Directions is scattered over the floor, hanging off the stage, some straddling laps as they throw back shots, trade insults and harmonize random song lyrics.

They haven’t started an official round of Taboo because they’re still waiting for Quinn and Brittany to even out the teams. Rachel’s made her best effort to keep them busy with Celebrity which is pretty much a game only being played between her and Kurt. And Kurt’s chosen celebrity is Simon Cowell, which Santana’s pretty sure is his way of excusing being a complete ass. She’s sort of proud.

“I missed you,” Santana hears after she feels. Blond hair dangles in front of her eyes, lithe arms come around her neck to squeeze and she feels a press of lips against the top of her head. She feels like she’s blushing or something but she just blames it on the fact that she’s half past tipsy.

“Hey,” she mutters when Brittany takes a seat next to her, grabs her hand and starts playing with it in her lap. She wants to snatch it away, but she doesn’t.

*

Rachel Berry is a damn lie.

And Santana’s starting to believe there aren’t any honest people in New Directions (Hello. Finn, Quinn … Santana) because “I won’t be partaking” turned into Rachel ‘What Shot Am I On? Can I Touch You?’ Berry.

Rachel’s concluded that tequila tastes like green and is fingering Puck’s Mohawk like she’s considering giving it a handjob and Santana would be amused if she wasn’t so damn loud.

The entire predicament is sort of hilarious. A quick game of pre-Taboo Thumper has everyone on the brink of tomorrow’s hangover and Santana’s sitting next to a shirtless Puck in a hot pink bandeau, her tank strung across a chair. Mike, Brittany, Sam and Blaine are all topless too.

Somehow naming their teams resulted in Shirts vs. Skins and everyone’s stomached enough liquor not to care.

(Quinn’s on their team but she refuses to go shirtless because she’s, well, Quinn.)

“The lady who sings that song Finn will sing when he finally scores again in like five years,” Brittany says while plucking at the strap of a sunny yellow bra. Santana’s eyes are covered by Puck’s shades but she’s still putting forth her best effort not to stare.

Mike slurs, “Madonna,” as he does some odd spin move and everyone’s laughing at Finn’s expense for at least the fifth time this evening and then a off-kilter rendition of “Like A Virgin” starts up. Finn, of course, tries to clarify that he’s not a virgin because he slept with Santana.

“Finncapable,” Santana says over the top of Puck’s sunglasses, “Never mention that fumble again.”

*

The transition from game night to party is pretty smooth since nearly everyone is beyond tipsy. One too many arguments over Brittany’s clues and Rachel’s abuse of the buzzer prompts Mike to pull out his iPad and hook it up to the state-of-the-art sound system in the Berry basement.

It’s more fun than Santana wants to admit. She will, however, admit that it’s amusing. She actually can’t stop laughing and she’s thankful she’s not in tears like the last time she partied with Glee.

Tina and Mercedes are having a dance battle that mostly consists of them cracking up in between dance moves while Mike smirks at Tina like he’s super in love. It should make Santana feel sick -- normally it would -- but, instead, she thinks it’s just sort of really cute.

Puck claps a hand on her shoulder and puts a cup in her hand, “Here you go, Champ.”

“I’m fine,” she says easily, because she’s a lot more drunk than she’d like to be and she has to drive home.

He just shrugs and downs the drink before pressing a kiss to her temple. She punches him in response because she always does when he tries to be sweet. He just grins and says she knows she likes it and makes his way over to Rachel, who is as handsy as ever. She doesn’t even want to know what’s up with that.

“San,” she hears over the music. She looks up to find Brittany waving her over, still shirtless. Everyone else managed to redress in the midst of the transition, but Brittany hasn’t. She’s not at all surprised because she really does take that stripper drunk thing to heart. If they were at any other party Santana would make her put on her top because hungry football players usually get way too excited. It’s glee though, and Brittany thinks they’re family so Santana lets it alone.

“Are you gonna keep staring or are you gonna come dance?” Brittany quirks her eyebrows playfully and Santana can’t really see the harm in dancing. She’s been doing her best impression of a streetball player and maintaining at least three feet of distance all night, which, really, is silly. She nods and gets up from the couch to dance to whatever Ke$ha song is playing but she keeps her distance.

They dance for a while and it’s lighthearted and carefree and Santana feels silly for ever being apprehensive. Dancing with Brittany is always fun and she’s always awed at her command of her body. She’s doing a really good job of keeping that awe in thoughts of the dancefloor and outside of the bedroom until Mike plays something a little slower by Miguel.

She’s almost positive she could control her thoughts if Brittany kept her distance but before she knows it there are hands on her hips and a smile against her neck. It feels nice, so nice, but the thudding in her chest has nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with anxiety.

“You have to get off me,” she says her hands covering Brittany’s in an attempt to move them. Her throat is dry and she can’t stop scanning the room to see who’s watching; Brittany won’t budge and it still feels nice in one place but hurts elsewhere. “Seriously. Stop.”

Brittany lifts her head and Santana’s met with sad eyes that she really can’t deal with, “I don’t get it.”

“Just fucking stop, okay?” She hisses and finally the effort she’s put toward moving the hands that seem to belong on her waist works. She shoves them down and away and they drive against Brittany’s own thighs. She doesn’t even chance looking at her as she storms away, because everything hurts and her eyes sting.

*

“That look of misery seems familiar, Santana,” Kurt says. She wants to slug him because she’s pretty sure of what he’s insinuating, but she just frowns because she doesn’t need this right now.

“Fuck off, Hummel,” she manages through the tightness of her lungs. She picks up a shot glass and tops it with Jack before escaping to the backyard, chest tight, lungs burning and eyes stinging.

*

“You’re an idiot,” Quinn says in place of a greeting and Santana’s drunk and angry and really wondering what exactly a heart attack feels like because she might be in the middle of one, but she’s still Santana. So.

“You’re a bitch,” she quips and then her hand moves to her chest to squeeze at the spot where her heart is thumping rapidly.

“We’re even then.” Quinn takes a seat beside her and looks like she can’t decide how close she wants to actually be. She finally relaxes into a space about six inches away and Santana just scoffs.

“It’s not contagious.”

“What? I-- Santana, seriously, get over yourself,” Quinn hisses. It’s not her usual acid and Santana looks up and realizes that Quinn’s actually offended. “Believe me, if I cared about catching something from you we would’ve stopped being friends a long time ago.”

She wants to say when did we start, but she’s either dying or being tortured and she needs someone to be here if she actually stops breathing.

Santana stays quiet and rubs at the trigger, her heart. She takes in measured breaths because her lungs are still tight but the summer air is refreshing and Quinn’s palm is flat against her back rubbing tiny circles that are surprisingly soothing.

She looks at her with curious eyes. They don’t _do_ this, but Quinn’s here and it feels like the hotel in New York again. She remembers how light she felt huddled together with them -- the best friends she’s not sure she wants to have. She doesn’t fight it or jerk away because it really is helping.

“I know you’re scared,” Quinn starts but Santana isn’t ready for _that_.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she manages. She rubs circles against her temples with her left hand and squeezes her knee with the right one. It’s always been her reaction to anxiety, if she can calm down enough to remember it helps. She’s usually okay to handle the panic on her own.

Quinn doesn’t say anything more. They sit in silence staring into darkness with Quinn’s hand stilled against her back; slow circles no longer necessary.

“I just need to not be around her,” Santana says after a while.

“I don’t think that’s the case at all.”

*

Regardless of what Santana thinks she needs, she’s not getting it tonight because when her and Quinn finally step back inside Mike is dancing over frowning.

“I was looking for you,” he slurs with a grin that turns into a grimace, “Brittany’s sick.”

*

Santana finds Brittany hovering over the porcelain throne in Rachel’s bathroom, Finn awkwardly patting at her back. She sighs and taps his shoulder.

“I got it.” He doesn’t protest because of the ice in her eyes and she shuts the door behind him.

“You’ll feel better when it’s all out,” she says softly, one hand winds soft hair into her palm and the other finds a rhythm against her back. Brittany nods and she wanders if she’s sick from drinking or being upset.

Even when she’s finished emptying her stomach her eyes are low and her hands clammy. Santana sits her on the edge of the tub and runs a damp paper towel over her face.

“Did you drive?” Brittany nods. “You’re gonna have to leave your car here. I’ll bring you back to  
get it in the morning.”

Brittany doesn’t say anything, just shuts her eyes and reaches for Santana’s hand. She takes it in her own and helps her up. Brittany immediately eases into her side and Santana wraps an arm around her waist. Her lips hover awkwardly over Brittany’s temple before she presses them down. She’s almost positive she can feel Brittany relax.

*

Puck groans about not being ready to go and Santana considers punching him in the middle of Rachel’s stage. Instead, she rolls her eyes and tells him good luck finding a ride home. She turns her back on him before he can respond and goes back to where Brittany’s on the couch with her head resting the crook of the arm. Artie’s rolling over and she wonders how many people she’ll want to hit before the night is over.

Before she puts any serious thought into it Quinn is in her path.

“Tina’s going to give me and Mercedes a lift, so you go ahead now.” Santana just nods and tries to contort her face into appreciation but it settles somewhere between a smile and a grimace. Quinn just pats her shoulder like she gets it and says something to Artie that has him rolling away from Britt. He casts a downward glance at Santana, but she ignores it and lifts Brittany off the couch and out to her car.

“I’ll call your mom,” she says for no reason because Brittany’s eyes are shut and her head is pressed against the passenger seat window.

*

She practically carries Brittany to her room because she’s way out of it and still pretty drunk. She clings to Santana with the little bit of energy she has left and only lets go when Santana drops her softy onto the bed. Brittany lets out a murmur that she can’t quite understand but she shrugs instead of asking her to repeat it.

She realizes they haven’t shared a bed in nearly two months and weariness almost makes her retreat to the couch. She shakes off the thought because it’s silly and returns her attention to Britt who twitches lightly. She knows she’ll wake up sweating if she doesn’t undress her but it doesn’t make it any less awkward to tuck Brittany into the sheets in only her shirt and panties.

*

Santana wakes up to giggling and sees Brittany perched at the edge of her bed, three Capri Suns in her lap. Anyone else would take it as a sign of generosity, but Santana knows she’s going to drink all three. She can never drink just one.

“Hi Sleepyhead,” Brittany coos when she realizes Santana is awake. Before Santana can stop her she’s kissing her, but its quick and sweet like the ones she presses to her cheeks so she just lets out a sigh and licks her bottom lip. “Perry’s about to be on,” Brittany says smiling.

“Yeah?” Santana asks, not being able to suppress a grin because even chest tightening gay panic can’t keep her from enjoying Phineas and Ferb.

“Mhm,” Brittany says grinning and sidling back up the bed to take residence at Santana’s side. She nuzzles into her and drops her head to her chest.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” she says, “I don’t want to have to get you a card too. Calm it down, okay?”

Santana shakes her head and makes herself as comfortable as possible, which isn’t very comfortable at all for the first ten minutes, but soon she’s enthralled in the comedy of Doofensmirtz and all his failed plans. With Brittany giggling into her t-shirt and holding a Capri Sun to her lips to share worrying doesn’t seem to be at the top of the list of her priorities anymore.

There’s a fleeting moment where she thinks that if anyone knew she actually enjoyed at least three shows on the Disney channel and sometimes slept in a Perry the Platypus shirt Brittany got her, she’d never be able to live it down.

But then she thinks there are worse things to deal with and lets the moment pass, because Brittany’s fingers are tickling her side as she says, “I’m telling mom,” at the same time as Candace Flynn and she can’t help but relax, because this is BrittanyandSantana in friendship. Nothing more, nothing less and if Glee club is the best part of her day, this is the best part of her everything.

*

Three hours and several rounds of MJ Experience later -- which included Brittany dancing unabashedly in her underwear and Santana actually being able to keep her hands and mouth to herself (something she hasn’t been able to do since they were thirteen) -- the two of them lay curled up in her covers. Brittany’s fallen asleep again. She has the uncanny ability to avoid the actual pain of hangovers but she wakes early and then crashes every morning after.

Santana can’t sleep because there’s a warm thigh separating her own and a hand gripping her t-shirt like she might run away. There’s nothing to distract her from the fact that laying like this with Brittany clutching her like she needs her feels distinctly different from BrittanyandSantana in friendship and more like BrittanyandSantana in a relationship.

She likes them both, but she’s afraid of choosing one and losing the other and then thirty six words are rolling through her thoughts like a cyclone and her cheeks are wet and she’s really tired of that burning sensation.

She doesn’t know what anything means anymore but she’s too afraid to ask.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey!” Santana shouts from the perch of her lifeguard chair. Her parents were actually serious about the summer job so she spends four days a week in various bikinis (and that one too-hot for the public pool monokini), with Ray-Bans covering her eyes as she reads books and completely ignores intolerable brats splashing under her in the pool.

She seriously hopes nothing bad happens because her give-a-fuck is broken and she doesn’t want someone’s floating child on her conscience. She tries to pay attention but when she does she just ends up yelling at an insufferable excuse for cute who doesn’t understand that running on wet tile can get you fucking killed.

“You! Get out!” She shouts from her perch in the lifeguard chair. The world’s most obnoxious ten year-old has been pissing her off for the better part of an hour since at least six other obnoxious twerps have tugged at her ankle or tapped at her thigh to get her attention about how he’s been trying to drown all of them.

(There was, of course, that fourteen year-old who just wanted to touch her thigh which resulted in a Squints-style ejection.)

The demon child narrows his eyes at her and flips her the bird. It takes everything in her not to climb down and shove his ass back into the pool he’s just climbed out of. She stares him down instead and he crumbles because she’s Santana Lopez and making people squirm with a look is something she was born to do.

“Don’t come back,” she calls after him. “If you do, I have no problem dropping you in the deep end.”

She shrugs her shoulders, watches him go with a scowl on his face and slides her sunglasses back on. She looks at the kids in the pool staring at her-- slack jawed with a mix of wonder and fear in their eyes -- and bucks at them. “You want some too?”

*

She hasn’t seen Brittany in three days and before the hour they hung out three days ago it had been a week. She doesn’t want to admit that she’s not sure if its driving her crazy because she can’t stop thinking about wanting to kissing her or the fact that she’s promised to read _Deathly Hallows_ to her before the premiere.

She goes with the reading thing because they haven’t kissed in four months and she refuses to let that be the problem until she’s shaking a sheet in the air to knock out the wrinkles and fold it when a flood of memories knocks her square in the chest.

*

She can’t help but think about folding up her sleeping bag the morning after she first kissed Brittany in front of a humming television in her family room with way too many relatives in her house to get to sleep in her own bed.

They had sleepovers every Friday and she really could care less that her mom was housing six additional Lopez’s. Brittany was going to spend the night. She always did and it was Santana’s turn to host. She was the one with the Playstation and they had scores to beat.

Her argument seemed strong enough because her mother just shrugged her shoulders, told her they better be on their best behavior and they were stuck on the floor in the den. She didn’t really care where they slept so long as they got to be together.

Sleepovers were their thing. Brittany was leaving for Colorado with her family in two days and they’d be gone for two weeks. She wanted to at least be a little happy before she had to be miserable.

They did the usual: painting each others nails, practicing fish braids, watching movies and stuffing themselves into one sleeping bag. The excuse was that Santana always got cold and Brittany made her warm but they really just liked being near each other.

Neither one of them wanted to get up to shut off the movie and one of Santana’s cousins had lost the remote so a humming blue screen cast light on the den. Everyone else had been sleep for hours, but they always fought to see just how long they could stay up.

Brittany was losing the battle, her eyes half shut but trained on Santana who was looking everywhere but at her. Their bodies were pressed closely together, legs wound like gimp and she took a moment to think that maybe they were getting too big to share a sleeping bag. Brittany had already grown a good three inches that summer.

“Hey,” Brittany whispered, she was so close her breath tickled Santana’s forehead.

“What?”

“You’re pretty,” Brittany said with a grin. She always got silly when she was sleepy and Santana knew that in a few moments she was going to doze off and sleep hard until morning like always.

She felt her cheeks tinge red with warmth and embarrassment. Brittany always complimented her on something: her hair, her skin, her new shoes, but she’d never said she was pretty. That was all encompassing.

She felt herself smile and then her mouth was saying thanks without words. Her hand resting on Brittany’s cheek. She pulled back after a moment, more red than before and dropped her head into the crook of her arm. Brittany smiled softly, kissed her back just as earnest and then nestled her head against her chest to fall asleep.

*

When she tucks the sheet into the linen closet she thinks about just how innocent it had all started; how the kiss had really been her way of saying the thanks she couldn’t put into words. But mostly she thinks about the fact that the second time she kissed Brittany had been because she wanted it. Because she needed to know what it would feel like to kiss her the way she’d seen it done in movies.

That feeling had landed her here: in love.

*

As if people who share her blood aren’t driving her crazy enough (this summer job shit really fucking sucks), her mom won’t stop badgering her about finding a dress for her cousin Luisa’s wedding at the end of the summer. She’s just glad she skirted out of being apart of the bridal party, but now she has to find a dress that her mother won’t blow a gasket over (which dismisses every dress she already owns.)

She doesn’t have to work and she can’t stand being in the house any longer with her mom “ _tsssing_ ” every time she comes into the den. She drops her Macbook into her laptop sleeve and grabs her purse before heading to the Lima Bean. She can scam on their free Internet, air conditioning and continue her dress search online.

She grabs a too-big caramel iced coffee and a donut (she’s so glad to be off the Cheerios diet, its the only thing she _doesn’t_ miss). She almost shoots a text to Quinn when she slides into a chair at a table in the corner, but she changes her mind. She’s very actively ignoring the _Where are you?_ text Britt sent her a few minutes ago. Her heart is thudding and they’re not even sharing the same space.

*

She’s got fourteen tabs open across Asos, Betsey Johnson, American Apparel and Top Shop when she spots him. He gives her a little nod and she’s considering just returning a smile when she realizes he can actually be of some help.

“Kurt,” she says with a little more emphasis than she intends. A few heads turn her way and her eyebrows furrow in annoyance, but she focuses her attention on him. His eyebrows lift in confusion with an expression that obviously says ‘You’re not talking to me, right?’ She rolls her eyes. “Come sit.”

He shrugs and it’s so diva that she has to roll her eyes.

Kurt slides into the seat across from her nestling something steamy and she shakes her head because it’s hot as balls outside. There’s no way she’s drinking anything without ice until September. It makes her think of Britt, whose undying love for hot cocoa, is strong enough for summer consumption.

“So...?” Kurt asks. She’s waiting for his eyebrow to jump right off his face because it’s aimed that high. She nearly asks where he gets them arched, but she’s pretty sure that’s rude and she wants his help; instead, she settles on a simple, “Hey,” and he looks three seconds from getting up.

“I, um,” she starts, “Well, I’m looking for a dress.” His eyes light up and she smirks, “For my cousin’s wedding and it has to be a little outside of my comfort zone.”

“Not slutty. Okay. Where do I factor into this?” She rolls her eyes and spins her laptop around, the satiny red cover makes a noise against the table. “Oh, I see.”

“Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to help. I just fig--”

“Shh,” he says, “I need quiet so I can think straight. Would you mind standing?”

“What?”

“Stand up,” she frowns, “So I can get a good look at your body. I’m obviously not scamming on you and you’ve definitely heeded worse requests.”

She shoots him a look, but stands, because, seriously, she needs to get this out of the way. She can’t take another conversation with her mom weaving in and out of Spanish and English expressing disappointment for her procrastination and “loose” dressing. She stands, drops her arms to her sides like they weigh a ton and frowns as his eyes scan up and down her body.

“We’re definitely going strapless. Your chest is lovely,” he notes and then his finger is zooming over the trackpad and he’s tapping out instructions to Google.

“Can I sit down?”

*

Another iced coffee and a sandwich later, they’ve finally found something. Strapless with the perfect neckline; soft yellow, that she not sure will work with her skintone. Kurt reminds her that it’s summer and she’s tanned quite a bit. He managed to make Berry look hot that one time, so, she trusts his judgment.

There’s an awkward silence hanging between them as she types her credit card information into the the checkout from memory -- she may or may not have an online shopping problem.

It’s weird sitting with Kurt but it’s somehow comfortable too. She feels like the biggest bitch in the world, because maybe if she’d been brave enough to be his friend she could have protected him like she’s always protected Britt against people who didn’t understand her. Maybe she could be brave for herself.

He looks at her from across the table and there’s way more cognizance than politeness in the way his lips turn up and it makes her chest tight. She can practically see gears turning in his head like he’s been waiting for this moment to pounce on her with a big, “I knew it!” She hasn’t been blind to the looks of pity he’s been shooting her way and she wonders if Brittany’s said anything to him.

“Look,” she starts because she wants to halt this conversation before it begins. The corners of his mouth twitch until his lips form a straight line but he holds her gaze with confidence.

“Don’t,” he says finally. Confusion drenches her features and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything, Santana. I’m not going to say anything either. But,” he straightens his shoulders and leans forward, “If you ever want to. I’m available. I don’t really understand why you prefer to suffer alone, but I think I get it. I’ve talked to Dave.”

She wants to yell or kick him for laying everything out like that, for knowing but she can’t. She slumps in her chair, instead, and taps a finger against the table. He gives her a quick warm smile and covers her hand with his own. The way he smiles at her says he gets it, really understands, but the way his hand fits on top of hers, warm and buzzing with some unidentifiable electricity assures her that things might really be okay.

“I have to go,” she says after a long moment of silence. He nods and mutters about needing to go too. They collect their things in silence. She should say thanks, but she can’t make the word lift from the dry feeling in her mouth. She hopes there’s enough thanks in the hand that she wraps around his with a squeeze before she’s out the door.

*

The last thing Santana expects to find when she slides her bag off her arm and steps into her room is Brittany. She’s in the center of her bed sitting Indian-style, head bowed over the book in her lap. She looks up at Santana with a smile but doesn’t move.

“You took forever to get home, silly,” Brittany says. She drops the book beside her and angles her body to face Santana.

“Hey.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“Have not.”

“You have but I forgive you,” Brittany smiles easily and shrugs her shoulders.

“ _You_ forgive _me_?” Santana bites down on her tongue, frowning. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t need to be forgiven.”

“Okay,” Brittany says softly. Santana hears her sigh. “Well, since I haven’t seen you I’ve been reading it on my own,” she lifts up the book and Santana recognizes it immediately. A little part of her feels bad, the other part is still angry that Brittany’s here. “I have two more chapters.”

“You’ve been fine on your own.”

She drops her bag into her desk chair and sets her laptop on her desk without bothering to remove it from it’s sleeve. Brittany frowns and Santana’s sure she really doesn’t know what she’s done to be avoided. She looks away and crosses the room to her dresser. Brittany’s quiet, watching.

“Look. I’m gonna take a shower because it’s hot and I’m like criminally gross, but I’ll read it to you when I get out.”

Brittany fucking seal claps, which is obnoxiously cute, and Santana bites back a smile.

This is why she avoids her. The normal anxiety in her chest is quelled by the one thing she thinks is its source. It hurts her head to make sense of it.

She snatches up a pair of boxers and a beater from her top drawer then heads to the bathroom connected to her room. When she emerges, clothed and feeling human again, Brittany is waiting for her; lying on her side, head resting in her palm.

She takes a seat next to her and Brittany immediately scoots closer and drops her head into her lap. Brittany can get her to do nearly anything she’d be embarrassed about if people knew; reading her Harry Potter is one of them. Just like that, things are back to normal and she’s comfortable again.

She sort of gets choked up toward the end and Brittany reflexively thumbs at her side. She jerks away and lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Can you stop that?” Brittany says with as much annoyance as she can muster. It’s not much because she’s almost always stuck on happy, but its enough to snap Santana out of whatever mood she’s locked in.

“Stop what?”

“Making that noise,” she says reenacting Santana’s sigh, “like I made you gay.”

“What the fuck, Britt? Seriously?”

“I’ve let you avoid me, shove me off of you in front of everyone and act like I don’t exist whenever it’s convenient for you,” she says and the look on her face is enough to make Santana feel like shit. “It really sucks putting up with it. You don’t have to grimace when I touch you. I’m not a predator. That’s that Ryerson guy.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You are. And it’s dumb. So stop it. I know you’re like going through stuff and having a hard time, but I didn’t do anything to you. Every time you push me away I keep coming back but...”

“But what?”

“I can only be pushed so much,” she says scooting away from Santana and off the bed. She’s looking for her shoes with a frown on her face and all Santana can do is gape.

“Are you being serious? You _friend zoned_ me. After you told me you’d rather be with Artie. After you pushed me to fucking express my feelings. After I told you I loved you. _You_ pushed _me_ away.”

Brittany just stares like Santana’s grown two more heads around the one that’s still rambling about hurt feelings and all the time she’s said “I love you.”

“I told you I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in this world. I didn’t friend zone you, but I’m not going to sleep around with you like before if you can’t be with me. I can’t do that. I love you too much to let you keep hurting yourself but maybe you don’t love me like you think you do.” Her shoes are on and she’s snatching her bag off the floor. “Maybe you should keep avoiding me,” she says and then she’s gone.

Santana can hear her footsteps rapidly _tap tapping_ down the stairs. She hears her mom tell Brittany goodbye but she doesn’t hear her response. She assumes it was whispered in the tone Brittany uses when she’s upset, but she can’t even make herself care because she feels like she’s sinking.

When she’s calmed down she considers calling Britt or going to her house, but the prospect of hearing her say something else that hits right in the gut is enough to make drop her phone onto her dresser and curl into her sheets.

*

She’s pretty fucking pathetic; even by her recent standards. She actually took playlists from her mom’s laptop and put them on her iPod. She’s been listening to super emotional oldies by The Isley Brother’s and whoever else her mom digs. It’s sad, actually, that every lyric seems to mean something to what’s going on with her and Britt.

It’s really stupid that she’s been such an idiot, but she hasn’t built up the energy to make herself apologize and Brittany doesn’t seem to have any intentions of making the first step (honestly she shouldn’t have to).

Everything is too much. She’s had way too many conversations with people who seem to _know_. And, fuck, she’s just waiting for the pressure in her head to make it cave in.

*

“Lopez!” Santana jerks and sits up in her lifeguard chair. She frowns when she sees the source of the voice. She was getting in a pretty nice tan and having an excellent daydream about--

“Are you going to speak?”

“What? No. You fucking--” she stops and looks at the kids below her who all push out a round of _Ooooh’s_ , “You harpy. I was daydreaming. God. Why are you here? You sunburn like a fucking ginger.”

“It’s nice to see you too,” Quinn says. “Do you get a break or something?”

Santana raises her wrist only to realize she’s not wearing a watch. “What time is it?”

“Five.”

“Yes. A break called ‘off’.” She says smirking. She rolls her towel up before climbing down from her post then pulls out a whistle and blows hard. “Alright munchkins get the hell out. I’m going home.”

“I wanted to swim.”

“Well, Fabray, maybe you should’ve checked the pool hours -- Hey! Seriously, get out.” The few remaining kids scramble out and she wonders where the hell their parents are for a moment before deciding she doesn’t actually care. She glances at Quinn who’s stuffing her own towel into her bag with a scowl.

“You look like someone stole your puppy.”

“I seriously wanted to swim.”

“You wanted to see me being hot. It’s fine. Most people do.”

Quinn rolls her eyes and her mouth curls into the smirk she usually wears before saying something to piss Santana off, but the fight leaves her mouth after a moment passes. Santana grimaces in confusion.

“Please don’t go light on me, Q.”

“Some things are better left unsaid.” She smiles and Santana wants to push her in the pool.

“So, other than being obnoxiously adept at understanding closing times, what did you want?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Then let’s eat. I think I’ll be able to digest with you in close proximity.”

“At least you’re keeping your food down these days.” Santana smirks, because, it was a low blow, but it’s the Quinn she’s comfortable with, which is better than whatever she was dishing five minutes ago.

“Sadly, I couldn’t excuse it with morning sickness.”

“Bitch.”

“Takes a bigger one to know one.”

“Not your best.”

“That’s fine. You’re still a bitch so the point wasn’t missed.”

*

It almost doesn’t feel weird sitting in Breadstix with Quinn except there’s an empty space beside her that should be occupied by Brittany and she and Quinn haven’t been this close in proximity since the party. That interaction was cloaked mostly in silence, but this, this is something different all together.

They’re talking (small talk) but it’s more than they’ve done in a long time and Santana starts to think she was wrong about a lot of things. Brittany’s blow up sent her head into a space of doubt. Not doubt in them, but in her own understanding; of herself, of Brittany.

Her and Quinn end up back at her place. She’s busy swiping off her nail polish (one nail chipped and she really just can’t deal with chipped polish) and Quinn’s fingering through her bookshelf.

“So,” Quinn starts, grabbing a book off her shelf, her eyebrows furrowing. “You read Sarah Dessen?”

“Yes. Your point?”

“It’s a little sappy. I just … I didn’t expect that you’d read stuff like that.”

“Well, I’m full of surprises.”

“Not really. You’re pretty easy to read.”

“Fuck you.”

“So are you ready to talk about this or …?”

“About what,” Santana asks even though she knows where this is going.

“Pretending this doesn’t exist isn’t going to help you.”

“Who says I want your help?”

“I know that you don’t, but I’m offering it anyway.”

She doesn’t say anything, just props the bottle of polish against her thigh (OPI I’m Not Really A Waitress) and flattens the small dot of polish against her thumbnail. She drags it slow and deliberate to the tip and pats the brush against the end of her nail to wrap the polish around. It’s a technique she’s been perfecting since twelve and she can probably do it without looking, but it gives her a reason to completely ignore Quinn.

“Whatever,” Quinn says after Santana’s finished painting all the nails on her right hand. She suggests they watch a movie five minutes later and even though Santana knows she’s pissed at her, she’d much rather be around Santana than at home with her mother smelling like scotch.

*

“Do you want me to go down on you?”

“No.”

“C’mon. Let me.”

“Dude, why are you so determined to give me head?”

“Because you’re super bitchy and I know you’re not doing anyone else.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Uh. Yeah I do. When’s the last time you busted one?”

“I’m a girl. I don’t bust nuts, Puckerman.”

“Whatever. When’s the last time you let one go?”

“Shut up.” She frowns trying to remember the last time, which already makes it too long ago. She shrugs and mumbles something about the last time she let him. A month ago.

“A month? What the fuck, Lo?”

“Can you not be the archetype for douchehood?”

He’s pissing her off but he’s right. She _is_ super bitchy and it is (at least partly) because of her lack of action. She shouldn’t let him do it because it just opens another can of worms. She’d rather be bothered over a not-so-smart decision that results in an orgasm than deal with everything else.

After an unnecessary long argument about not being bitchy (when she so is) she still ends up pressed against the wall, her skirt bunched up around her waist with her legs draped over his shoulders. And it’s as good as it always is but she can’t shake the feeling of being wrong when its over.

“Stop frowning,” he says as she pulls her panties up and tugs her skirt back down. “I know it wasn’t bad. You’re pretty vocal.”

“Shut up.”

“Don’t think too much on it. We’re just friends helping each other out.”

“Shut up. We’re just … we can’t do this anymore okay?”

“Fine, but let’s go smoke this,” he says holding up a blunt. She concedes with a shrug and an hour later they’re zooted and stuffing themselves with the two twenty-piece nuggets they ordered in between laughing and smacking each other in the drive-thru of McDonald’s.

“I hope you know you’re being a dumb ass about this.”

“Fuck are you talking about?” Santana says frowning.

“If you’re going to play dumb then I can too.”

“Just stop.” Her lungs squeeze and her mouth gets dryer than it already was.

“Fine. There’s some Jack under the seat. You wanna get wasted and prank call Berry?”

“What are you twelve?”

Apparently she’s twelve too because they spend the next two hours trading shots of Jack and pretending to be everyone from Patti LuPone to Dr. Frankenstein as they roll through the phone numbers of the New Directions.

(Santana has the most fun perfecting her accent as a Chinese food delivery man. She yells about fried rice being outside for ten minutes while a flustered Quinn argues that she never ordered any, but never hangs up.)

*

She’s moping in bed mulling over lyrics that hurt a little too much. Someone crooning: “If I go on my way without you, where would I go?” wraps that rope around her chest again, because she doesn’t know where she’d go. It’s always been about them. She’s been a selfish idiot about everything but even in thinking of herself Brittany’s tied into it. She can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include her.

She can’t keep avoiding her and she’s sure three days of silence isn’t sending the right message to: “Maybe you don’t love me as much as you think you do … keep avoiding me.” So, she cracks; showers and washes her face and throws on a pair of shorts and a tank to go apologize.

She’s not ready to throw herself into a relationship and dance out of her closet, but she needs Brittany to understand that she’s working on it and she needs her friendship more than anything. It’s exactly what she tells her on the Pierce doorstep after getting over the pleasant shock of seeing her in a flowy sundress with her hair all curly around her face (shock that goes straight to her lower half.)

She toes at the concrete beneath her to keep her composure and in the end a quick hug and a, “My mom is making kabobs,” is enough to right their friendship. She’s not sure about the other stuff (where they’ll take things, if anywhere), but hanging in the Pierce backyard with people she considers family is good enough.

*

She’s positive she’s living in Rachel Berry’s wet dream. Somehow (with booze) Puck’s convinced her to show up. The state fair is two towns over for the next two weeks and Rachel suggested “New Directions bonding time”, which, seriously, she’s already had too much of.

She doesn’t know when they decided she was their friend, but aside from dicking around with Puck and playing the I’m-trying-not-to-strangle-you game with Quinn she’s also spent some time with Tina and Mercedes (Brittany dragged her along) and Mike, who is really awesome at Mario Kart (way better than Puck who makes her wins feel unfair, almost.)

“Here woman,” Puck says shoving a large cloud of pink and yellow cotton candy toward her mouth as Rachel gives the second speech of the night. She slugs him in the shoulder and he winces before swallowing the puff himself and licking his lips. His tongue is covered in colorful sugar crystals. Gross.

“Keep your hands away from my mouth.” He looks like he has something smug and totally gross to say but she shoots him a look that makes him shut his mouth and turn back to Rachel.

“Let’s ditch them,” Brittany says leaning close to Santana’s ear. She may be all “Glee is family” but she recognizes a disaster when she sees one and Rachel’s “Five-Point State Fair Doctrine” is brimming with it.

Santana nods a confirmation and Brittany snakes their pinkies together and tugs her to the left. They dip behind Puck who is way too busy stuffing himself with alternating handfuls of cotton candy and popcorn to notice them get away. She almost tugs Quinn along but decides against it at the last moment.

“Where to?” She asks when they’re a safe distance away, tucked behind a colorful food stand emblazoned with spray painted stamps of their options. Her stomach grumbles as the words cross her mind and she wishes she’d taken that puff of cotton candy Puck tried to stuff in her mouth.

“We can get food,” Brittany says poking her stomach knowingly. A smile eases onto her face and they hop in line. They end up stuffed with corn dogs, sharing a funnel cake and splitting a lemonade on a bench. It’s easy and really familiar which has had the tendency to make her anxious lately. But for once, she’s calm; relaxed even.

She’s thankful that Rachel’s near-OCD planning skills means that they already have tickets (and have had them since last week when Rachel came early to purchase them). She feels young for the first time in ages as she and Britt work on riding everything and simultaneously avoiding the rest of the glee club.

She’s actually having fun and her breathing’s regular. Even when Brittany reaches for her hand, tugs her close, pulls her into the Ferris wheel line and nuzzles her head into the crook of her neck there’s no panic. It feels almost freakishly normal. Her eyes aren’t darting around to see who might be watching -- though no one is anyway.

*

The Ferris wheels gentle cycling comes to a stop when their car reaches the highest point. The sun is still setting; the sky’s palette a darkened mix of pink, purple and blue. Zooming lights of the fast-moving rides below make her eyes cross and the twinkle of bulbs on colorful concession stands brighten them.

It’s sort of perfect up here. A breeze sweeps in and feathers Brittany’s hair. She swings her legs up into Santana’s lap and curls her knees like a bridge over her thighs. Instinctively, Santana’s hand moves to rest on them; one hand palms a knee and the other presses into a warm, bare thigh.

“What do you want from me?” She asks after a moment. They’ve been silent; Brittany smiling at the view and Santana trying not to stare.

Brittany’s thumb kneads circles into the top of her hand and her nose crinkles in a way that brings a welcome lightness to Santana’s chest, “Oh honey, I just want _you_.”

“And I want you to be happy -- you scowl more than Tubbs these days,” she continues, “I want you to be comfortable with yourself and I want you to realize that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Santana’s tongue flecks out to moisten her lips and she tries to swallow the lump in her throat.

“ _I want that too_ ,” she wants to say, but instead, “I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” comes out.

“Shh,” Brittany says, sweeping a piece of hair out of Santana’s line of sight. “I know it’s hard, but one day you’ll be able to. And I’m okay with that; I’ll wait.”

She can’t wrap her mind around a string of words that express all that she’s feeling, but she tilts Brittany’s chin up and presses their lips together, slowly at first, and hopes she can feel the warmth that’s spread from her chest to her fingertips.

She feels incredibly light when their mouths move in tandem. A fleeting thought of literally floating away makes her smile into the kiss, but it’s the way Brittany’s “I love you” feels against her lips that makes the tear roll down her cheek.

Brittany’s thumb is there flicking it away easily. She leans back, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for that all summer,” she says and then their mouths are together again and being this high up and feeling like she can float higher feels like the most comfortable thing in the world.

It’s the breathy noise Brittany makes when their mouths finally disconnect with a soft pop that makes her return the sentiment without bursting into tears.

*

“Did you know you could get married in New York?” Brittany says hours later. They’re cloaked in darkness, sheets and pajamas, the hum of a breeze in the air. Anyone else would interpret her question as Brittany speaking absently but Santana’s known her long enough to separate lack of cognizance from gentle prodding.

“Yeah,” she says after a while because she might be living under ugly Christmas sweaters in her closet, but she’s done research and she pays attention to what’s going on around her. She tells Brittany of all the other places it’s possible.

“I think that’s awesome.” Brittany says, toying with the hem of Santana’s t-shirt. Her right leg draped over Santana’s torso; the fingers of her free hand stroking patterns into Santana’s scalp.

“Me too.”


	3. Chapter 3

Santana doesn’t understand when “I’m not going” turned into “Come outside, I’m here,” but it has -- way too many times to count-- and every time it’s been some occasion involving her being around glee. They’ve bowled and swam together and had another ridiculous house party at Puck’s that left her with the world’s worst hangover, half-naked in Puck’s bed and she’s very adamant about that never happening again.

(He explained that they didn’t do anything she just puked on her shirt and that he would never try anything with her like that because he’s really trying to stay away from prison. And then he hints at her not even being into that anymore and she slugs him before he can finish the sentence.)

He comes out of his house with a grin on his face, “Hurry up,” she says through the open window, “I still have to get Britt and Quinn.”

She also has no idea when they became a fucking four-pack, because they’re in her car every time she gets suckered into hanging out with the glee club and she almost doesn’t mind that they fight over her radio every single time; or that Puck always groans when she makes him get in the backseat for Britt.

“Cough it up,” she says holding out her hand when they pull up to the Applebees Rachel’s invited them to for karaoke. Three five dollar bills are dropped into her palm. She smiles, pockets it and cuts the engine.

“How did I get sucked into this?” She asks shaking her head.

A collective “You love us,” is shot back at her in a chorus that makes her roll her eyes. Puck and Quinn hop out with Puck clutching his stomach talking about his hunger and Quinn smacking him in the head.

“Here,” Santana says sliding a five back into Brittany’s hand. Brittany frowns and tries to give it back but Santana pushes her hand away. “Special privileges,” she adds with a shrug.

Brittany just grins and leans over the console and before Santana has time to think that someone could see them lips are on hers, moving slowly, sweetly before her teeth drag across her bottom lip. Brittany leans back in her seat and smiles brightly.

“Thanks,” she says sliding out of the car. Santana takes a moment to swipe her thumb over her bottom lip and catch her breath. Britt seems to know she needs a moment because she doesn’t look back.

Santana sits for a moment torn between the need to clutch her temples and suppress a smile.

*

When she finally makes it inside the restaurant the waitresses have dragged three large tables together and there’s a seat waiting for her across from Brittany and next to Mercedes. She tosses up a wave and a small smile and slides into her seat without a word. She’s positive it’ll be a long night and she’s trying to be pleasant for at least a half hour.

This summer really is stretching the boundaries of normal, but she’s almost not bothered even if Rachel is giving a speech about her appreciation for such an amazing group of _backup_ singers. She bites her tongue because she’s resolved that Rachel is delusional and she doesn’t have the energy or the words to help her with that.

Brittany smiles at her from across the table and then she feels her ankle rub against her. She clears her throat and her eyes widen a little, but Brittany doesn’t stop and she doesn’t make her. Something has to help her pass the time.

She doesn’t even know what they are right now, but they’ve been all pinkies and occasional kisses for the past two weeks. They haven’t done anything and she hasn’t tried, because she doesn’t want to blur any lines. All she knows is that she wishes she hadn’t spent the beginning of the summer being a complete dunce because Brittany’s company makes everything better.

Her, Quinn and Puck have been hanging at the pool on the days she has to work and Sonic cream slushes and copious amounts of Breadstix usually follow. It’s nice having _friends_ and healthy relationships that aren’t made fuzzy by the inability to be alone in a room without devouring each other.

(But, yeah, she misses that too.)

*

She doesn’t want to admit it but this is the best night she’s had that hasn’t ended in an orgasm.

The food’s as good as always -- she kills her Riblets and steals one of Brittany’s chicken tenders. Puck’s spiked everyone’s drink and she has a new appreciation for the marriage of strawberry lemonade and tequila. When she’s finished eating and drinking she’s giggly and her foot is strumming the soft flesh on the inside of Brittany’s knee. Brittany’s actually blushing, which makes a small fire spread in her stomach.

The tequila on her tongue makes her consider wrapping her mouth around a suggestion that involves the Applebees bathroom (which definitely wouldn’t be a new adventure for them) but she snaps out of that when Rachel starts making song suggestions.

“Oh wow!” she hears, “They have ‘Lay All Your Love Over Me’.” Rachel’s actually bouncing in her seat, which, ugh, but Santana loves that song and she’s just drunk enough to sing it.

“No way, Berry. That’s mine,” she half-slurs and raises her empty glass to her lips to see if maybe there’s just a little more inside. Puck’s smirking at her from two seats away. He raises a second flask (God love him) and cocks an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s a duet,” Rachel says like she’s so not giving up the song but she isn’t opposed to sharing it either, which is like one giant step for mankind or some shit.

“You want _me_ to sing with _you_?”

“I don’t really want to but we both like the song so--”

“Cool. Let’s do it.” She slides her chair back a little too hard and it makes an awful noise that makes the entire table jerk. She shrugs it off, walks around the table to snatch up Puck’s flask and takes a long sip. She drops a kiss to Brittany’s temple for no apparent reason and then shoots Rachel a look. “Come on.”

“I get the girl parts.”

“Those suck anyway,” Santana says and then she’s fucking rocking it out to ABBA with Rachel Berry and aside from a few missed notes (whatever, she’s tipsy) they sound really good together. And it’s fun. Actually fun.

Rachel looks terrified when Santana reaches for her but she ignores it and squeezes her into a hug anyway.

“I guess you’re not that bad,” she says and then she realizes she’s _hugging_ Rachel Berry and nearly jumps away, because, _what_. This fucking summer.

She apologizes for the hug which sends Rachel into a speech about understanding that Santana’s not used to acts of kindness and affection (she nearly points out that that’s what got her into Brittany’s pants in the first place -- she’s like a fucking sap) but people don’t usually apologize for being kind.

“Whatever,” she says, “But, like, we might be almost-friends now but no more hugs. If I look like I want to hug you again, just like duck.”

Rachel just nods and smiles (it’s super patronizing but whatever).

*

Singing a duet with Rachel actually isn’t the weirdest thing she does. She ends up functioning as Scary Spice for a glee girls performance of “Say You’ll Be There” by the Spice Girls which is entirely too fun. She’s not sure if it’s because she finished off Puck’s flask or that she’s been secretly dying to sing something by them in glee since they did their first mash-up.

The boys perform “Tearing Up My Heart” by N’SYNC and they play the roll of flailing fans, which nearly gets them kicked out because somehow Mike, Sam and Puck end up shirtless.

Quinn drives her car and drops off Puck first and then Brittany takes over once they’ve gotten rid of Quinn.

“Can we go to your house?” She asks Brittany when they’re pulling away. “It’s Friday so that means your mom’s gonna make waffles in the morning and I miss her and her waffles. And your bed, I miss your bed.”

“Okay,” Brittany says with an amused shake of her head that Santana’s misses because she’s pressing her face against the window.

She practically passes out once they get to Brittany’s room and she wakes up in a t-shirt she doesn’t remember putting on and her panties with Brittany’s arm wrapped around her waist and her chin in the crook of her neck.

“I wanted to kiss you,” she says turning slightly. Brittany opens an eye and makes a face between a frown and a smile.

“Huh?

“I wanted to kiss you -- last night, but I didn’t get to,” she says. Brittany smiles then.

“You’ve kissed me a lot lately. I think you’ll be okay.”

“I can do it now,” she says and then she’s pressing lazy kisses wherever Brittany’s skin will take her. Brittany’s giggling non-stop which always tugs behind Santana’s belly button.

She’s got Brittany’s shirt off (and is so glad she doesn’t sleep in a bra) when Molly Pierce knocks on the door. She rolls away quickly even though she knows the door is locked and Brittany says something about them coming down for breakfast in just a minute. And she fucking loves those waffles, but damn.

Brittany presses an apologetic kiss to the corner of her mouth and she’s thankful for the interruption because this isn’t what she wants to start up again anyway. They don’t need anymore complications born out “not talking about it.”

*

Breakfast is amazing. Mrs. Pierce makes the best fluffy Belgian waffles from scratch and there’s this awesome strawberry compote that is the perfect marriage of sweet and tart to go on top. There’s also Denver omelettes. Santana’s forgotten how much she likes to stuff her family full, but she’s grateful.

Her and Britt don’t even get a chance to talk about the fact that her mouth was hovering over a nipple an hour ago (and they really should) because her phone rings on the way back upstairs and the call starts with “ _Santana Denia Lopez_...” and is followed closely by a smattering of choice Spanish words.

She definitely forgot that she’s supposed to be leaving for her cousin’s wedding in Columbus in an hour. Her mom let’s into her via phone for five straight minutes and she has a headache when she finally hangs up.

“I gotta go,” she says and Brittany frowns, “Luisa-- her wedding. I nearly forgot, well, I did forget and my mom is so pi--” she’s cut off by Brittany pushing her against the door mostly with the force of her mouth, which, God, is three types of awesome and fuck--

“Christ,” she says when their mouths finally separate with a pop. “I-- fuck. We should talk. We should really talk.”

Her phone is buzzing with a text message and she sees the ID “Mom” and groans.

“I’ll be back Monday and,” she swipes a thumb across her bottom lip, which is feeling pretty plump and shifts her eyes so they’re not exactly staring into Brittany’s because her gaze is doing something-- everywhere.

“I’ll -- yeah, Monday, okay?”

She contemplates whether or not kissing her goodbye is a bad idea. It would be because she’s seriously wet right now and Brittany hasn’t stopped looking at her like she wants to take her right this minute. Instead, she gives her hand a squeeze and ducks out the door she was just pressed up against.

*

The wedding is … nice. She doesn’t really like weddings. There’s too much hoopla for five minutes of ceremony and way too much money spent on things she considers stupid. Still, it’s nice.

She looks super hot in her dress (she throws on pearls for good measure) and her mom doesn’t make a noise at her when she sees her in it. Instead, she tells her she looks beautiful and she’s growing up to be such a amazing young lady. That exchange is enough to make her chest do weird things, but it’s the part where her mom says something about looking forward to her wedding day that brings a familiar anxiety.

Sure, she can get married in some places, but she knows the image of her moms dream and the reality of what it means for her is different. She excuses herself after a quick hug that she’s sure would’ve been longer had the conversation not taken that turn and emerges from the hotel bathroom with reapplied eye make-up.

It’s still good to be around family and the open bar helps. She knows better than to get wasted, but her dad slides her a couple glasses of wine and lets her taste his G&T. She pretends it’s an unfamiliar and makes a face of disgust but it calms her and then there’s dancing, lots of dancing and she somehow manages to push away some anxiety.

She just hopes she can still have this, this togetherness when she’s finally ready to--

*

The drive back is quiet. She half-sleeps for the majority of it while her parents freaking sing love songs in the front seat, which really should make her want to heave, but instead, sort of makes her smile even though they’re keeping her from the sleep she really wants.

They roll back into Lima around 8:30 and into their driveway twenty minutes after that. She’s glad to be back and still a little tired but it’s early and her cars right there. She tosses an, “I’ll be back later,” over her shoulder as she slides into her car and rolls down her window as she backs past her father whose carrying her dufflebag.

“Brittany’s?” He asks and she just nods. He shakes his head with a smile and tells her to greet the Pierce’s for him.

  
*

Britt’s dad answers the door and greets her with a big hug that she didn’t know she needed, but makes her feel a lot better than she has. She squeezes him back and he ruffles her hair and says he and Mrs. Pierce are on their way out for Thai.

“Be good,” he says like he has been since they started leaving them in the house alone at ten and she just nods and says she’ll try. It’s such an easy exchange but her heart thumps when he heads out the garage door with Mrs. Pierce who tells her there are cookies on the counter. The idea of them loving her any less or treating her different is scary, but --

She climbs the stairs a little slower than usual and enters Brittany’s room without knocking. She’s standing by her closet hanging clothes that are in the hamper beside her.

“Hey,” Santana says softer than she intended.

“You’re back,” Brittany says brightly. She puts a sundress onto a hanger and slides it into the closet and then pulls the door closed.

“Yeah.”

“How was it?” Brittany asks.

“It was cool. The highlight was the wine,” she says with a shrug and Brittany rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. “I guess the ceremony was nice too. They like lit candles and shit. Really sappy.”

“Sounds pretty,” Brittany says and Santana really doesn’t know when she got that close, but she’s like a foot away tugging the ends of her shorts, which draws her attention to her legs and … damn. They’re fucking perfect and never-ending and they squeeze around her waist super tight right before they quake and--

Brittany’s closed the space between them and her hand is tilting Santana’s chin up while her head comes down and then they’re kissing and Santana knows this is gonna lead somewhere further because its deep and needy.

“This doesn’t have to be about anything,” Brittany says pulling her head back, suddenly nervous. Her eyebrows furrow in worry like she’s afraid of what Santana will say; what she’ll do.

“I just … I miss you,” she says and Santana knows what she means because she’s been here. They’ve been joined at the hip like old times, but they haven’t been _this_ in so long.. “Can we just...”

“Shh,” Santana says her lips suddenly against Brittany’s mouth, her thumbs tightening in the belt loops closest to the zipper on Brittany’s shorts. “I want this to be about something, okay?”

She’s looking her straight in the eye and she’s never done that, not in a moment like this. “I want everything you want from this, so just … just let me take care of you.”

Brittany nods light against her, their lips still brushing together but there’s no urgency in their contact.

“I want what you want, I want what you _always_ wanted,” she mutters into their connection, her lips moving moist and slow against Brittany’s until the only words being exchanged are silent and spoken by dark eyes that have never left stony blue ones. Their mouths are speaking too, in a rhythm that is familiar and brand new all at once.

It’s almost overwhelming the way heat fans over Santana’s body. The jolt in her stomach feels like an anchor is attached to her navel, but she doesn’t run from it and she’s nearly positive Brittany is feeling the same things.

“I’m gonna be yours and you’ll be mine,” she says between kisses. “And I’m gonna try and do all that other hard stuff too, okay? I want you. I always wanted you,” she admits earnestly her eyes shifting just a bit to quell her nerves and then Brittany’s the one taking control because that’s all she’s ever wanted to know and Santana clasps her hands over Brittany’s and shakes her head ‘no’.

“I said I want to take care of you, let me have that,” she says smiling against her lips and then she puts space between them again and her eyes scan Brittany’s body in adoration. Brittany shivers.

All Santana can think is that she’s wasted so much time _not_ looking that she can’t stop doing it right now and Brittany’s still very much clothed in a fitted white v-neck and navy blue shorts with little red hearts on them. There really shouldn’t be anything particularly sexy about the outfit but she knows what’s under it and everything about it is _so_ Brittany and _that_ will always be sexy to her.

Her hands are reaching out before she knows it and she’s sliding them over the smooth, warm skin under the fabric of Brittany’s shirt and then she’s gently tugging it over her head and dropping it somewhere.

She’s still again because, fuck, the way Brittany’s looking at her is making her heart swell and it’s such a welcomed feeling because she’s only felt like she’s been suffocating for the past six months.

She has to fight the urge not to attack her. She wants this to mean something and all the times they’ve done this she’s never taken the time to appreciate the view. Her eyes scan from where they’re locked on pools of blue that seem spent on the edge of tears and anticipation and she has to look away or her resolve will be gone.

And then there are lips, the ones she met for the first time in the cover of darkness at 12, and they’re parted just slightly just like when she--

She halts the thought. Her eyes are like a highlighter over the contours of Brittany’s neck and her collarbone and the valley between her breast -- which is the softest place on earth.

She’s going to remember everything about this body and this moment and every time after this she’s going to bless a different spot with attention because she’s wasted so much time.

So much time.

One hand is snaking out to deftly undo a button and then her hands are pushing shorts over hips and down legs that go on and on and she’s lowering herself with them, her lips unable to stay away any longer. She’s kneeling and kissing the soft hardness of taut abs and gliding her hands from ankles to thighs with a tenderness she’s unfamiliar with, but it feels right, like this is the way she should’ve been touching her all along.

Brittany lets out a noise that sounds like she’s been holding in her breath this whole time and maybe she has. Santana nearly says something smug about the moisture pooling against red panties but, instead, she smiles, looks up through her eyelashes and says, “For me?”

Brittany nods and makes another noise of need and Santana stands slowly and slides her own skirt down her legs. Before she can protest Brittany’s taking off her shirt for her and smiling bright like this little bit of contact has been more than enough, but Santana smirks and there’s the hint of the Santana that’s very much about getting shit done.

She snakes one arm around Brittany to unclasp her bra and the other runs up and down the plane of soft skin and tight muscle on her stomach. She slides the bra down Brittany’s arms and her thumbs hook into the waist band on her panties. She slides them down her legs, her own body following the path and then kisses a trail up one leg on her way back up. Brittany’s breath hitches when her mouth is close and warmth from both of them hovers in the balance. She presses a quick, soft kiss where Brittany wants her and then she’s standing again.

The back of Brittany’s knees meet the mattress and she falls back with a soft thud. Santana’s straddling her seconds later, dark hair a curtain around studying eyes and wanting lips. She’s sure she should be touching her (and the whimper Brittany makes should be confirmation) but she’s focused on kissing her right because her mouth has always been able to say the things that she couldn’t.

She’s said a lot already but there are more words roped around her tongue, suspended on dragging teeth and massaging lips. So every kiss is a declaration; an ‘I love you’ she should’ve said years ago, an ‘I need you’ she’s been biting back for too long and an ‘I want you’ that’s danced on the tip of her tongue since the ninth grade. It feels so good to be letting these things go and she’d spend all night kissing stories into lips that feel like home if a gentle but sure hand wasn’t guiding her in the direction of another path of conversation.

“San,” Brittany whines and she’s smirking again because she’s not made to disappoint and the way Brittany clearly wants her strokes at her ego.

Her lips travel in a path down the jaw she knicked with an accidental kick in fourth grade and over the neck that’s been home to her head. She bites down on the collarbone that was on the receiving end of the first hickey she gave and the way Brittany keens nearly makes her lose focus. But she’s purposed to get reacquainted with the body that fits perfectly with her own, so she takes her time sucking and tweaking the dusty buds that took up too much of her attention at thirteen and her tongue zigzags across the abs that she spotted crunches for and, fuck, there’s so much she wants to say and do that she nearly loses nerve when her lips press a kiss into the thighs she’s sure were made to rest on her shoulders.

The first taste is almost overwhelming. Brittany’s back arches high and she moans low. Her fingers are raking through Santana’s hair in no time and she tugs, hard, to urge her on. It seems to be the thing she needs to realize that this just the beginning and there’s time, more time for slow and steady later because she’s hers now. Just hers and there’s no shame or fear between them.

So. There’s time, yes, but that doesn’t stop her from reminding her how good this-- _they_ can be. The first time Brittany falls a part on the edge of her tongue it’s with Santana’s name called out like it’s the only thing she ever wants to say for the rest of her life, but Santana doesn’t stop, doesn’t give her any indications of slowing until thighs are clenching around her shoulder again and God is brought into the mix. Even then she doesn’t so much stop as she does slow down until Brittany’s pulling her up by her shoulders and kissing her. She moans at the taste of herself and lets out a giggle that takes effort around ragged breathing.

It’s quiet for a moment, so quiet that if it weren’t for the way the oceans in Brittany’s eyes swim with love and flash with desire that she might have a moment to doubt that she’s done this right. But there’s not a chance for that because Brittany’s rolling them over with strength Santana’s almost forgotten. She kisses back every secret and leads her hand and tongue on a trek down Santana’s body simultaneously and, fuck, she nearly forgets her name before its all over.

“So good,” is all she can say before she’s tumbling over the edge and coming harder than she ever has with Brittany’s fingers strumming a song into her heat; lyrics pressed into kisses against hot skin.

*

She wakes up content if not slightly sore (Brittany likes things that bend: straws, Santana and David Beckham.) Brittany’s draped across her body, legs tangled with hers. Her head rests on her chest, right over her heart and she bows her own head to kiss Brittany’s temple. She stirs lightly, shifts her body and Santana jerks at the sudden pressure.

“I love you,” is the first thing she says when sleepy blues look up at her. She actually sees them wake up when Brittany’s mouth curves into a smile.

“I love you too,” she says scooting up and resting her head against Santana’s shoulder. “You meant all that stuff you said last night, right?” Brittany asks quietly after a few minutes of silence.

“You’re not sure?” Santana asks frowning slightly. “If last night wasn’t an indication of where I want to take things then I did something wr--”

“No, I just … we’re together?” She can hear the twitch of bridled hope in the way Brittany’s voice lilts.

“Yeah,” she says shifting so Brittany’s beneath her. “You’re mine,” she says kissing her lips, “And I’m yours,” another kiss, “Until time stops.”

Brittany’s smile is another one of those things she wants to keep with her forever in the mental Rolodex of things that make her feel light.

“It’s about time, silly,” Brittany says stroking the back of Santana’s neck before pulling her down for a kiss.

Better with feelings is the understatement of the year. Brittany’s brand of showing appreciation is both lofty and tiring but mostly really satisfying.


	4. Epilogue

She never thought she would be doing this; especially not in front of the glee club. Then again, she never thought she’d be in glee club or that she would consider them family and confide in them when she couldn’t even do it at home.

Regardless of how much she loved singing, Sandy Ryerson had always sort of terrified her. Sure he was gay, but everything about him screamed predator. Period. And there was no way she was going to sign up to be stuck in a room with him every day.

(Her issues with him never stopped her from copping from him though. Chronic Lady helped her do a lot of thinking, okay?)

But when he left and Schue stepped in and tricked Finn into joining glee and Rachel with her optimism and endless talent (and unbelievably long legs) had threatened Quinn and her relationship with Finnept she hadn’t been at all opposed (inwardly) to joining glee. She vocally groaned, complained and dry heaved, but inside, the idea of singing made her happy – even if she had to do it with a bunch of dorks.

But of course she wouldn’t let onto that.

Well, until they had accused her of leaking the set list. And whatever. Maybe it was the best part of her day, but that sort of fucking stopped when Brittany started dating Wheels. Then she just wanted to quit and cry and shit and she didn’t really know why until she was forced to confront her feelings, because Britt wanted her to and she had done whatever Britt wanted since she’d asked to stroke the duck on her shirt in second grade.

Everything except sing a fucking duet about coming to a window – which hit way too close to home because she was always climbing in and out of B’s window.

And she wasn’t fucking gay.

(Well she wasn’t _then_.

Or she _was_.

But she didn’t know what to call it.)

She is now and if she’s honest, she’s always known. But it’s taken a lot of tears and her favorite A’s (Amy, Adele and Anita) to come to terms with.

It’s almost funny how easy it slips from her mouth. She’d mulled over a speech for two weeks after discussing with Britt that she wasn’t ready to throw on a rainbow t-shirt and parade around Lima, but she could tell her friends. Brittany grinned too hard at that and she moved to clarify that she was referring to Puck and Quinn (which Brittany pointed out didn’t count, at all.) Brittany made it clear that friends meant glee.

It’s not even almost funny, it is. Of all the places and times to come out, to actually say “I’m gay” out loud it’s in the middle of a New Direction’s Taboo night (third of the summer, how do they keep getting her here?) She had an actual speech that said something sappy about them being sort of awesome or at least tolerable but she forgets all that when the urge to just do it comes over.

“I’m gay,” she says in the middle of a break from the game. Everyone’s trading insults, Mercedes and Kurt are harmonizing theirs. Her hand squeezes around the neck of the Mike’s Hard Lemonade in her hand.

It’s suddenly quiet, too quiet and she wonders if she can apparate if she tries hard enough. They’re all just kind of staring at her (Finn is gaping and Kurt is smiling) like they’re waiting for her to say more, but really that’s all she has.

“I lost my virginity to a lesbian,” Finn says, breaking the silence. Eleven sets of eyes shoot in his direction and then ten go back to Santana.

“You’re lucky you lost your virginity at all,” she quips, sipping her drink. Her eyes scan the room again and she sighs, “I dunno, I just felt like I should tell you guys. You’re like … fam – friends or something.”

It’s still quiet.

“Can someone say _something_? Seriously.”

“We sort of knew,” Rachel says softly, placing a hand on Santana’s knee. “But I think I can speak for all of us (“You usually do,” Quinn hisses and Santana thought her haircut wasn’t the only gay thing about her, but whatever) when I say that we’re proud of you and glad that you consider us worthy enough of your trust to be privileged to such important information. I know that this hasn’t been easy for you. I’m also positive that we are all more than ready to support you in any way necessary,” she pauses but doesn’t actually take a breath, “And the verse you wrote for Light Up The World? Well, that was you coming out, honestly. It was pretty obvious at that point. And Landslide? Sapphic, too.”

Santana rolls her eyes, but it’s the best way she can say thanks without saying something stupidly emotional or … nice.

“Dude, I’m finally a lesbro,” Puck says and her brows furrow.

“Are you serious? That’s what you have to say?”

“Fuck yeah, I’ve like always wanted to be one.”

Brittany squeezes her hand and then kisses the inside of her wrist and she bites back the insult at the tip of her tongue.

“Since you’ve pulled your head out of your ass,” Puck says, “You two are together now, right?”

She flips him the bird for the first comment and then nods with grin, “Yeah. She’s my girl – so stop looking down her shirt. I’m not blind,” she says slugging him.

They ease right back into a game after she answers a few questions that actually don’t make her chest tight. They get pretty buzzed and end up singing songs about friendship and shit, which would normally make her sick to her stomach, but doesn’t.

The thought that any of this being outside the norm never crosses her mind, because this, this is her new normal.


End file.
